


finer symptoms

by playexodus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Enemies With Benefits, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Time Skip, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 09:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27968258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playexodus/pseuds/playexodus
Summary: “Could there be finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?" -Pride and PrejudiceAs if he’ll give in to Miya Atsumu first. Fuck him. (Forget that Kiyoomi actually wants to.)Or: Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi run into some teamwork problems.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 27
Kudos: 220





	1. good opinions once lost

**Author's Note:**

> welcome. tags will be updated as we go, but be well aware that this fic is very much explicit.
> 
> most of this fic has been written, so chapters should come out regularly once I've wrapped up my exams in two weeks. I can easily promise I will not leave this unfinished. :D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants Miya Atsumu to know what he’s made of.

“Anyone who can’t hit my tosses just sucks.”

What a self-centered asshole.

Kiyoomi takes in the mustard-yellow blond hair, heavy lidded eyes and that smirk laced with arrogance and decides right then and there - Miya Atsumu is not worth his time.

“What are you glaring for? Did you pick a fight with Kageyama-kun or something?” Motoya sighs. “Are you trying to make enemies out of everyone or what?”

Kiyoomi just scowls, doesn’t bother responding. The rumours about the best setter in Japanese high school volleyball may have been accurate, but they glossed over the details of his shit personality. Kiyoomi’s not Kageyama’s biggest fan either, since he robbed him of the chance to play Wakatoshi in his last year, but he resents Atsumu’s aggravating comments the most. 

Funny enough, Atsumu attempts conversation with him at dinner too, and it’s stilted, awkward and painful. Kiyoomi keeps his answers monosyllabic while Motoya intervenes to save him, but Atsumu is weirdly persistent. Picks relentlessly at his preferences in V League teams, his favourite volleyball brands, favourite player - does Miya Atsumu ever think about anything besides volleyball?

“So. Sakusa-kun, wanna get some practice in tomorrow?” Atsumu asks, after Motoya leaves briefly for the bathroom.

That’s unexpected. “What, like you and me?”

Atsumu snorts. “No, you and the wind. _Yes_ , you and me. You never really got to hit my tosses properly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” he says, utterly frigid.

“It means,” Atsumu says, “I wanna see what you’re made of.” Kiyoomi doesn’t think he imagines the glint in his eye. “Don’t run away, Sakusa-kun.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “You can’t bait me into this. I’m not doing it.” He gets up to leave.

“What? Come on, Omi-kun - ”

Kiyoomi whips his head around. “ _Don’t_ call me that. Leave me alone.”

Atsumu’s eyes go wide, then he shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

That’s memory number one that rings through Sakusa’s head as he looks at the contract to join the MSBY Black Jackals sitting in front of him, pen in hand.

The idea of having to play on the same team as Miya Atsumu is wildly unappealing. Even the few times they’d met at tournaments, with Atsumu flashing his cocksure grin at him across the net, Kiyoomi had been incredibly tempted to throttle him. It wasn’t just his irritating attitude, it was the way he always had that laugh on his lips, like everything about volleyball fascinated him. For Kiyoomi, who’d picked up volleyball on a whim, it was unsettling.

His agent’s looking at him with his brows furrowed, like he doesn’t get what’s taking him so long. Honestly, Kiyoomi’s not so sure either. The pads of his fingers feel a little numb against the metal of the pen and Kiyoomi wants so badly to know he’ll never come to regret this decision. He goes over the meticulous pros and cons list in his mind again. He’d have to move out to Osaka, unfortunately, but that was essentially the only disadvantage. There were other teams courting him, but none with an offer as appealing, none with a real shot at taking the championship like the Jackals. The coaching and training staff had a reputation of being meticulous, accommodating and careful. They’ve been known to have players that know their role and fulfill it to perfection.

There were other pros too, other reasons to choose the Jackals, but one reason remains unspoken in his head, a thought spelled out in glaring neon font.

He wants Miya Atsumu to know what he’s made of. 

That’s how Kiyoomi finds himself at the Jackals pre-season dinner a few months later, dressed in a slick all black ensemble and desperately trying to school his expression into something approachable.

He bows politely to the older members of the team that he hadn’t met before - captain Shugo Meian, libero Inunaki Shion, and middle blocker Adriah Tomas, who were all excessively curious about the rumour of his weird bendy wrists. This is easy enough, he thinks, demonstrating the way his hand curls all the way flat against his arm, making them gasp in surprise. Just as he’s getting comfortable, he hears a loud cackle from his right, promising to win a proposed drinking competition.

“Ah, that’ll be Atsumu,” Inunaki laughs. Kiyoomi immediately scowls. This is a formal dinner, with their coaching staff and seniors, and of course this is the impression Atsumu would choose to make on them. Obviously, he can’t have changed much from high school. 

But somehow Atsumu is not embarrassing himself. Instead, he draws everyone in like moths to a flame, while guzzling down drinks, like this is a regular occurence. Someone had brought out cups to play flip cup, of all things. They’d cleared a table, and while Atsumu does crack a few jokes that fall flat, he’s still...something. He’s figured out how to dye his hair properly since high school, the blonde of his hair much less brassy than it was then, and his jaw has sharpened, his broad shoulders filling the seams of his dress shirt. Still, Kiyoomi doesn’t get it.

He’s stuck sitting near the wall, nursing his _ouzo_ on the rocks as the night wears on. He’d leave, but every once in a while someone approaches him to introduce themselves, and it would be truly rude for a rookie like him to leave before everyone else. His skin itches though, and from the way people are starting to flinch away from him slightly, he’s aware his expression’s taken on that surly, brooding form that it does when he’s bothered by something. Goddamn it. Why does this have to be so difficult -

“Nah, I don’t really know the rookies this year ‘cept Omi-kun and Shoyo-kun,” he hears a voice remark, off to his left. It’s Atsumu, and before Kiyoomi can escape, he continues, “Omi-kun’s talented, but he can be a little weird with people and he’s an absolute clean freak.” Whoever Atsumu’s with laughs a little, and that does it for Kiyoomi.

He clenches his fist tight around his glass and moves out of the shadows. He’s sure his face must look like a thundercloud right now, but he purposefully brushes past Atsumu on his way to the bar.

Fuck that asshole. What right does he have to talk about him like that, even before he gets the chance to properly integrate himself into the team? Kiyoomi clenches his fists. It’s hard enough for him to be _nice_ , be friendly and approachable, weird habits and lack of conversational skills and all. And on top of that he has to deal with Atsumu, who’s actively sabotaging him for no conceivable reason. 

That settles it. If that’s the way Atsumu’s gonna play it, Kiyoomi’s gonna make friends out of every goddamn person on this team, whatever it might cost him. There has to be a way. 

“Everyone please take anything you like,” Kiyoomi says, dropping the latest box of gifts near the entrance of the gym.

“Wow, Sakusa-kun, when did you get this popular?,” Inunaki teases, rummaging through the box. “There’s a whole-ass X-BOX in here, with the seal still on it. Who the fuck are your fans, man?”

Kiyoomi winces. “I’m not sure why they keep trying to give me things that I don’t know what to do with,” he says. But it did turn out to help him after all, his apparent generosity making his teammates and staff warm up to him quickly. His stoic personality worked in his favour ( _Your standoffish-ness just makes them want to get to know you more_ , Bokuto had said, laughing like a maniac) and his popularity soared - thus, the volume of gifts he was given every week increased consistently. His agent insisted he open an Instagram and Twitter account, which he updates maybe once a month. Bokuto needles him for using it wrong, but that’s about as much as Kiyoomi’s willing to do. 

“Still nice of you to give all this stuff away,” Bokuto laughs, grabbing a water bottle with Sakusa’s name and jersey number printed on it. “I’ll be taking this one, thanks.”

“Leave some for the staff,” Kiyoomi reminds them, grabbing a pristine white towel out of the box before anyone else can get their hands on it.

The only team members that don’t make a beeline for the box are Atsumu and Shoyo, who are having some conversation or other at the bench. Shoyo beams like the beatific angel he is, and Atsumu’s answering grin makes his eyes squint in what seems like genuine happiness. Kiyoomi’s almost angry on Shoyo’s behalf. He’s not sure how Atsumu charms so many others into liking him, but Shoyo certainly doesn’t deserve to fall for whatever trap Atsumu’s setting for him at the moment, with his glittering grins and wandering eyes.

“I’m sick of it,” Kiyoomi says finally, and Bokuto glances at him.

“Sick of what?”

“Sick of that idiot flirting with Shoyo all the time.”

“Oh, Tsum-tsum?” Bokuto laughs. “He’s just another guy in line for a little attention, Omi-Omi, don’t worry about it.”

“Exactly. It’s pathetic to watch. If I have to hear anything about Shoyo-kun and his beautiful thighs ever again...” He grimaces. “I swear, I’ll transfer to the Adlers.”

“Didn’t you try that a few months ago?” Bokuto asks innocently. “I thought your agent laughed you out of his office - ”

“Forget my agent, I’ll be leaving either way,” he snaps, flushing red. 

“But I’d miss you,” Bokuto says. Kiyoomi cringes at what he assumes are the puppy dog eyes he’s trying to make at him. 

“Does that face typically work for you,” Kiyoomi says flatly.

Bokuto flinches, and Kiyoomi almost feels bad. “...Yes?”

They’re interrupted when Atsumu saunters over, dropping a single wink in Kiyoomi’s direction as he takes a sip from his water bottle. Shoyo’s too smart and volleyball obsessed to ever date him properly, Kiyoomi reasons, considering Miya’s long string of past lovers, compulsive flirtation habits, and generally intolerable personality. But honestly, from this angle, Kiyoomi’s forced to acknowledge it - Miya is objectively attractive. Sweat drips from his hair, trailing down the lines of his neck, making the muscles stand out. His dark lashes flutter against his cheekbone, pink lips puckered around the mouth of the water bottle. And underneath his jersey, his dri-fit clings to a set of abs sculpted to the nines, just like every professional athlete. It’s nothing Kiyoomi finds uniquely distracting, but he could admit this much, if necessary. 

But he won’t. Because - 

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu grins at him, “You checking me out? You could always take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“I’m busy plotting your murder, actually,” Kiyoomi shoots back. He nods at Bokuto, then heads off towards the gym. 

Because Miya Atsumu is a Grade A asshole when he opens his mouth, good looks notwithstanding, and if Kiyoomi never has to speak to him again, it’ll be too soon. 

Kiyoomi’s well aware that’s a futile train of thought though, since he’s the one who chose this team and he’s the one who’s responsible for handling his resentment. Unfortunately, he’s only a few months into his contract, and he doesn’t remember Atsumu being _this_ unbearable in high school. 

“Ah, Sakusa-senshu, Miya-senshu.” Their coach, Samson Foster chooses that moment to summon them to the sidelines, and Kiyoomi’s robbed of the chance to grab anyone besides Atsumu for a practice partner. 

“You’re both the best server and the best serve receiver we’ve got on the team,” their coach begins, with the assistant coach translating for him. “I want you both to practice drills with each other after practice, everyday.” 

Kiyoomi winces internally. 

“Meian-senshu tells me you both don’t get along, and honestly,” he raises his eyebrows pointedly, “I expect better from you both. It’s not awful, since you still play well together, but I don’t want it to get worse at the wrong time. Is that clear?”

Kiyoomi straightens. “Of course. I have no problem with that,” he says pointedly, glancing at Atsumu, who huffs out a curt laugh.

“Me neither, Coach,” he says agreeably, innocently. Like this isn’t his fault. Kiyoomi envisions dangling him from the gym rafters.

The cherry on top comes as they head back to the gym. Atsumu muses, “How many of my serves were you able to receive in high school?” He strokes his chin, like he’s pretending to think. “If I remember, you only managed to get a few in all of our matches against each other. Five, at most.” He smirks at Kiyoomi. “I’m willing to bet you won’t even be able to receive a single one now.”

Kiyoomi wants to be the bigger person so badly. So, so badly. 

“I’m gonna knock you down a few pegs, Miya Atsumu,” he says quietly, surprising even himself. 

Atsumu gives him a long glance, a slow grin spreading over his face. Kiyoomi sees it then, that crazed spark he gets in his eye. Some part of him notes distantly that this typically only happens in the most intense moments of 3rd sets at Nationals. 

“You’re on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! this chapter was mostly setup, but do look forward to the next one.


	2. got me good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one thing more satisfying than scoring on Kiyoomi in practice is getting the last laugh.

Atsumu watches Shoyo leap into the air like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing for the rest of his life and feels the slightest twinge of resentment. Resentment for what, he’s not really sure, but it's there all the same. Maybe if the circumstances had been different - 

“Miya,” a voice cuts through his thoughts. Atsumu doesn’t respond.

“Miya. Hello. Miya.”

“Hm,” he finally acknowledges, but still doesn’t turn around. 

“ _Miya_. Is your head still attached to your body or did you abandon it somewhere, just to see what happens?”

Atsumu’s mouth twists as he turns, amusement failing to reach his eyes. “Omi-kun,” he says, all false brightness, “If you want my undivided attention, you just have to ask.”

Kiyoomi grits his teeth, black curls flopping into his eyes. Atsumu has this weird impulse to tug on that fringe, just to see what happens.

“Don’t call me that. And I have been, for the last 5 minutes.” Kiyoomi stalks up to him, frustration thinning his mouth more than usual. Maybe if he didn’t look like he was about to murder a small animal all the time, he’d be marginally more attractive. “Normally you manage to leave the idiotic brain cells behind before practice,” he continues, “But it looks like you’ve dragged them here with you. You’ve been distracted all day. What the hell is going on?”

Atsumu rolls his eyes, unfolding his arms and picking up a stray volleyball. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he bites out. Turning away, he palms the volleyball and points across the net. “I’m serving,” he says.

Kiyoomi responds wordlessly, taking his position on the other side, squatting to receive. 

Their practice drills have sort of become a tradition now, beyond coach’s orders. This is the heat Atsumu craves, where he gets to lay it all on the court, without holding back. No false pretenses, no pretend politeness. Kiyoomi despises him, always has, so he doesn’t feel any need to play nice for the sake of it. That’s the part their coach doesn’t get, Atsumu thinks - this is the way they are, and it works better when they hate each other. They might never figure out how to get along, but all’s fair in volleyball. He grins in anticipation, feels the thrum of adrenaline in his veins. 

“Feels like Kiyoomi’s got a decent chance of winning today,” Inunaki says, swiping at his forehead with a towel to join the rest of the team on the sidelines. “He’s keeping up with Atsumu’s jump floaters just fine.” 

Their teammates have started to pick up on the way the atmosphere changes in the gym when they begin their drills. Frankly, it’s more like free entertainment to them, watching Kiyoomi and Atsumu exchange barbs while they try to score on each other. 

“They’re both so _angry_ with each other, all the time,” Bokuto muses. “What do you think that’s about?”

Inunaki laughs. “My money’s on unresolved sexual tension. Sakusa’s always looking at him like he’s the dirt he just stepped on. I’m telling you, Miya’s probably into some kinky shit.”

“Are you kidding,” Adriah says with a snort. “Sakusa can’t stand him, but they make good teammates. That’s it. No way they’re into each other.”

Atsumu puts up a brutal jump floater, and Sakusa sinks, getting under it with a perfect overhand pass. Inunaki whistles. “Nice receive!”

Atsumu scowls, tosses the ball up, then does a curving jump serve. Bokuto winces as it speeds right for Kiyoomi’s face, but Kiyoomi dodges it. 

“Out!” he calls, and it lands squarely outside the line behind him.

Is that a smirk, curling at the side of Kiyoomi’s mouth? Atsumu’s gonna bury him alive. He feels his blood burn, screaming at him to leap higher, hit harder, _focus_ \- 

“Miya,” Kiyoomi says evenly. “Don’t get carried away.”

Adriah winces. “Man, he’s not gonna be happy to hear that from him, of all people.”

And normally, Adriah would be correct. But Atsumu freezes, looking directly at Kiyoomi. There’s a twist to his lips that he can’t quite get a read on, an intent in his pitch-black eyes. He watches Kiyoomi straighten, clench his right fist, then release. 

_Relax._

He inhales, deep and slow, relishes the silence of anticipation that falls, blanketing the gym. He tosses, then jumps, body curving in the air, and sends the ball flying in a filthy trajectory to the deep left corner. Kiyoomi speeds for it, but can’t get his hands under in time - the ball thwacks satisfyingly into the floor.

_That should wipe that smirk off his face_ , Atsumu thinks, but then Kiyoomi turns, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Nice serve,” he says.

_Motherfucker._ What sort of game is Kiyoomi playing?

“You’d have been able to receive that if you’d positioned yourself properly,” Atsumu fires back, and he’s immediately rewarded with that trademark twisted scowl. 

“I think we’re done here,” Kiyoomi says.

“So soon, Omi-Omi?”

“I’m busy,” he seethes. 

“Shame,” Atsumu grins.

The one thing more satisfying than scoring on Kiyoomi in practice is getting the last laugh.

Really though, Atsumu should know better than to think Kiyoomi would just sit back and take it. The next day, Kiyoomi’s like a monster, his speed and focus during their drill unlike anything Atsumu’s ever seen from him. He doesn’t say a word - just soundlessly positions himself exactly where he needs to be, everytime. It’s like Kiyoomi’s reminding him, with every ball that flies into the air: _You thought you could beat me?_ Atsumu can’t crack him, and it results in a humiliating loss. So much so that the audience at the sidelines starts hollering, taunting him for being unable to score.

“Yeah, I get it,” Atsumu snaps, “I lost, whatever.”

“You didn’t just lose, Tsum-tsum,” Bokuto says, gasping between puffs of laughter. “That was devastating. Are you sure you’re not sick today?”

“Maybe Atsumu would’ve won that if he spent less time staring at Shoyo and more time actually practicing his serves,” Kiyoomi quips, out of nowhere, and Atsumu feels his stomach sink like a brick. Their teammates laugh, but he’s zeroed in on Shoyo’s reaction and - 

“Well, I’m headed home,” Shoyo says, turning away. “See you guys tomorrow.”

Fucking Sakusa Kiyoomi. Nothing about this is fun anymore. Atsumu stalks into the locker room, his sour mood written all over his face. His anger simmers just under his skin, failing to dissipate even after a long shower. Instead it spreads, worming into his chest, his fingertips, until he realizes he and Kiyoomi are the only ones left in the locker room.

Kiyoomi closes his locker door to find Atsumu right behind it. 

“What was that,” Atsumu says between his teeth, a live wire brimming with anger.

Kiyoomi’s not sure what’s brought this on, but Atsumu looks utterly furious and that’s too interesting of an opportunity to pass up. 

“What was what,” Kiyoomi says flatly, with an air of falsified boredom.

“You know what,” he hisses. “Why were you saying that about Hinata?”

“Because you have a _massive crush_ , Atsumu, and everyone already knows it.” Kiyoomi gives him a light shove. “Don’t come so close.”

Atsumu’s jaw works. “I don’t have a _crush_ ,” he says through his teeth, poking a finger into Kiyoomi’s chest and shoving him back. “Not sure why my crushes would be any of your business anyway, you asshole.”

Kiyoomi can’t help himself. Atsumu’s so easy to rile up, so damn easy - 

“It’s adorable how you think you’re hiding it, Miya,” he continues, unfazed. “You know, I’m pretty sure he can tell anyways, at this point you might as well confess to him yourself -”

He’s cut off mid-sentence when Atsumu lifts him by the collar of his shirt and slams him into the locker doors. Kiyoomi winces, but Atsumu gets right in his face.

“Shut the _fuck up_ ,” he snarls.

“Or what,” Kiyoomi snaps.

Atsumu glares - and that’s when he catches it. Kiyoomi’s eyes drop to his lips. Just for a second, just for a moment, but it’s enough.

“Oh,” Atsumu says, “ _That’s_ what this is about.”

Fuck. Kiyoomi shoves him off. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“You want me _bad,_ ” Atsumu drawls, “Real bad. You’re just jealous. What do you think this is, a kindergarten crush? If you pull on my pigtails hard enough it’ll make me like you?”

Kiyoomi closes his eyes. “I don’t have a _crush_ on you, Miya, I can barely tolerate you in the first place.”

Atsumu’s answering grin is sleazy and awful. Kiyoomi flinches back. “You sure about that?”

Kiyoomi stares at him. “What?”

“I know we can’t stand each other, Omi-Omi,” he says, and Kiyoomi wants to smack that grin off his face. “But,” Atsumu adds, stepping into Kiyoomi’s space, “You can admit, at least, you’ve thought about me that way.”

Kiyoomi scoffs. “I can easily say I’ve never thought about you that way.”

“Oh come on, Omi-Omi. Never?” Atsumu tilts his head, leaning even closer. His eyes flash, golden, amber, bronze. Why would God be so kind as to give the devil eyes like that? Kiyoomi doesn’t move. 

“Never thought about me, kissing you until you can’t breathe, fucking you until- ”

Goddamn this man.

Kiyoomi grabs him by the collar and smashes his mouth against Atsumu’s. Their teeth clack painfully, and Atsumu stumbles back, but he opens his mouth, and Kiyoomi licks into it ravenously. It’s so good, it’s so hot, the way Atsumu bites at his lower lip and cradles his face, like Kiyoomi deserves some kind of gentleness, in spite of the bitter nature of their relationship. 

It’s so good, Kiyoomi almost regrets his choice to break it off just as Atsumu starts getting into it, groaning.

Kiyoomi smirks at Atsumu’s dumbstruck face. “Cute. See you later, Miya,” he says, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder and heading out.

“CUTE?!” Atsumu yells after him. 

The days after their kiss are...strange.

Something crackles in the air, unspoken and charged. Kiyoomi’s spikes are particularly intense, so much so that he overdoes it and they spin out of his control. Atsumu’s sets are as precise as ever, but there’s something off about them, like they lack his trademark ease. They barely even look at each other, and the more they drag on like this, the more Meian’s scowl grows pronounced.

“You two,” he says finally, pointing at Atsumu and Kiyoomi, “Whatever’s going on, I want you to get along like two fish in a pond by the end of the day or I will personally make sure you get kicked off the starting lineup,” he snaps, unusually strict.

Atsumu glances at Kiyoomi, who doesn’t look back. He bows, and assures Meian they’ll be playing at their best, but Meian insists they stay behind after practice and work out their shit.

They end up together in the locker room, alone again as the sun sets, lighting the walls orange-red and Atsumu’s hair bronze-gold. The water from the shower’s still dripping from his hair, soaking into his shirt and making the lines of his shoulders stand out in sharp relief. 

“So,” Kiyoomi says.

“So,” Atsumu echoes. 

Even his voice grates on Kiyoomi. “Look, we can just pretend it never happened and move on - ”

“Pretend it never happened? Don’t kid yourself, Omi-kun, that won’t work, I know you’ve been thinking about it -”

“It might not work for you but it works just fine for me, because I can handle my emotions and relationships like a grown man instead of a five year old, Miya,” Kiyoomi snaps. “This is our _job_. Stop fucking around.”

“ _You_ stop fucking around. If you can handle it then what was all that at practice today? Barely even got two hits in. This isn’t junior high, Kiyoomi,” he taunts. 

“Maybe if you knew how to set like a pro volleyball player-”

“The hell are you saying about my sets?”

“I’m saying your sets were dogshit today, Miya - ”

Atsumu slams him against the lockers, a complete reversal of their positions from a few days before, and kisses him so hard it burns a little. Kiyoomi’s sure his lip’s split open, the iron taste of blood souring the kiss, but Atsumu’s prodding at his mouth with his tongue and Kiyoomi gasps, forgetting the pain immediately. Atsumu takes advantage and licks at the roof of Kiyoomi’s mouth, forcing him to tilt his chin upwards as Atsumu runs his hands up his neck and tangles them in his hair. Kiyoomi groans, wrapping his arms around Atsumu’s broad back and thick shoulders and pulling him even closer.

Atsumu breaks away. “I knew you wanted me, Omi, I _knew it_ -”

“Shut the fuck up and kiss me, you asshole.”

“Now, is that any way to spe- ”

The muffled noise of surprise Atsumu makes when Kiyoomi kisses him and makes him stumble back is satisfying, but not nearly as satisfying as the moan he lets out when Kiyoomi rolls his hips. 

Atsumu breaks away for the second time. “Omi-kun,” he says, and Kiyoomi’s incredibly gratified to hear how breathless he sounds. “We doin’ this?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “God, how the fuck have you ever gotten laid in your life?”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Atsumu says, his eyes fever-bright. 

“Stop talking,” Kiyoomi says, then he sinks to his knees as he pushes Atsumu down to the bench. He pulls down his shorts and underwear, watching as Atsumu’s cock twitches, springing up half-hard. 

“Omi-kun, you don’t have to - ”

He takes the head into his mouth and sucks. Atsumu gasps, brings his hands to Kiyoomi’s hair and tugs, making Kiyoomi pull off with a _pop_ of his lips.

“Don’t have to what?” he asks, tilting his head with a smirk.

“You’re the worst,” Atsumu scowls, but the blood in his cheeks belies his statement.

It takes a second for him to decipher that the noise coming out of Kiyoomi’s mouth is laughter. Barely a chuckle, but he’s amused. Atsumu doesn’t think he’s ever heard a sound like that before, but before he can say anything, Kiyoomi bends down and takes him into his mouth again, lapping at his length and moving rhythmically, methodically, from the base to the tip. 

“Ah - Omi,” Atsumu can barely breathe, can barely look at him. He cranes his head back, looking at the ceiling as he resists the urge to buck into Kiyoomi’s warm, wet mouth. There’s something tantalizing, teasing, about the dispassionate way Kiyoomi sucks him off. Like Atsumu could be anyone, an inanimate object, even. Kiyoomi doesn’t make a single exaggerated noise, not a single movement out of line, doesn’t even look at Atsumu with his pretty doe eyes. And Atsumu...is into it.

“Mmm,” he groans, while Kiyoomi suckles at the tip, holding his hips down. He tangles his fingers in Kiyoomi’s hair, in curls that are a little rougher than he expects them to be. 

“Open your eyes, Omi-Omi,” he murmurs, but Kiyoomi ignores him. 

“Omi-kun. Omi. Open your eyes,” he insists, giving Kiyoomi’s hair a sharp tug, and Kiyoomi moans as his eyes fly open, the vibrations making Atsumu jerk his hips into Kiyoomi’s mouth, forcing him back and off his cock, coughing. 

“Oh, you like that,” Atsumu remarks, the knowledge settling his confidence. Kiyoomi flushes red, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Want me to fuck your face,” Atsumu asks softly, thumbing at the tears beading in the corner of Kiyoomi’s eye.

Kiyoomi seems to come to a decision when he leans back on his heels, closes his eyes, and opens his mouth, waiting. “Yes,” he says hoarsely, and that’s enough for Atsumu to make Kiyoomi deep throat him so hard he can only croak out a goodbye when they leave. 

Well. At least they could consider their teamwork problem solved.


	3. drive you mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Atsumu gets like this, dangerous and deliberate, everyone tries their best to stay out of his way.
> 
> Except, this time, there’s nowhere for Kiyoomi to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the wait! hope you enjoy :)

They don’t talk about it.

Kiyoomi gives Atsumu the usual biting snark during practice and then lets him fuck his mouth filthy afterwards. It’s fine. It might not be the smartest decision Kiyoomi’s ever made, but it’s the one he’s making. 

Regardless, their secret seems to have boosted Atsumu’s ego just a little too much for Kiyoomi’s liking. 

“Omi-kun, you gotta run up for the spike if you want the feint to look convincing, you know?” Atsumu condescends, and Kiyoomi wants to smack him.

“Fuck you,” he spits, but instead of Atsumu’s usual reaction, he grins conspiratorially and leans in. 

“You’re welcome to do so anytime.”

And instead of escalating into a full blown shouting match, Kiyoomi feels himself flush, involuntarily, all the way to the tips of his ears.

Needless to say, their coach is pleased they’re finally getting along. 

“You could stand to snap at me a little less during practice, y’know,” Atsumu murmurs casually. This is the 6th consecutive day they’ve had an unspoken agreement to wait in the locker room after practice to do...whatever this is. 

“What?” Kiyoomi says between gasps, already half-hard while Atsumu leaves marks littered across his neck. “What are you talking about?”

“You know. Maybe you could be nice to me, sometimes.” 

Kiyoomi can’t stop the laugh before it leaves his mouth - and obviously, Atsumu goes red. 

“Why’re you laughing now? You think you can just keep treating me like shit and I’ll fuck you anyway?”

“Okay, calm down,” Kiyoomi says, holding his hands up in surrender. “First of all, you haven’t actually fucked me yet. And second, I was just a little startled. You’ve acted like a total asshole to me since we met. That was probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

But when Atsumu steps back at that, his expression going stony, Kiyoomi has to try not to flinch at the draft of cooler air that replaces the heat of Atsumu’s body.

“I tried being nice, remember? Then you insulted my hair and ignored me.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “One tiny attempt at courtesy does not make up for years of dealing with your awful personality. Besides, you’re worse with me than with anyone else on the team.”

Atsumu crosses his arms. Kiyoomi can’t help the way his eyes are drawn to his biceps bulging at the sleeves of his too-tight shirt.

“Well, you’re too sensitive. Maybe if you had thicker skin you wouldn’t have such a problem with me,” he bites back.

“Fuck off. I like it better when you suck my dick so you can’t talk,” Kiyoomi spits out. 

All at once, Atsumu’s expression changes. He stares at him through lowered lashes, that half arrogant smirk making its reappearance. 

“Yeah? I like it better when you cry ‘cause you can’t take _my_ dick in your throat, Kiyoomi,” he answers, deceptively sweet. Kiyoomi swallows. When Atsumu gets like this, dangerous and deliberate, everyone tries their best to stay out of his way.

Except, this time, there’s nowhere for Kiyoomi to go. 

“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu says, stepping back into his space. “Are you gonna be nice to me?” He threads his hand through the curls behind Kiyoomi’s head, tilting it back slightly as he leans in. So close, unbearably close. Lips still pink from making out with him earlier. And the worst part - his eyes, intensely focused, blazing amber-yellow. Kiyoomi knows from experience that having those eyes trained on him while he fucks into Atsumu’s mouth is the hottest thing to happen to him since discovering masturbation. 

Fuck his dignity though, right?

He closes the gap himself and sighs into Atsumu’s mouth when Atsumu kisses him back. 

“I’ll be expecting a neutral “good morning” when I see you tomorrow, then,” Atsumu says smugly.

“Make me come and I’ll think about it,” Kiyoomi hisses.

“So demanding,” Atsumu drawls, but he reaches down Kiyoomi’s briefs anyway and palms his cock with calloused fingers, his touch warm and rough enough that it makes Kiyoomi melt. Atsumu doesn’t let that escape his attention.

“Be sweet to me, Omi-kun,” he whispers, “Or I’ll stop touching you. Right as you orgasm.”

“You fucking asshole,” Kiyoomi grits out, still grinding against Atsumu’s palm. “I could walk out of here right now.”

“You could,” he agrees. “But you won’t.” He bites Kiyoomi’s earlobe, just enough to make him gasp and fold, leaning against him. He curls his fingers around the elastic band of his briefs, pulling and then letting it snap against Kiyoomi’s skin. He jumps in response.

“You think I need you to take care of me? I could wander into any bar and walk out with someone man enough to fuck me properly in 20 minutes,” he bites back, shoving lightly at Atsumu’s shoulder.

Atsumu’s eyes go impossibly dark with promise, that smirk growing more pronounced by the second. Kiyoomi, who’s never been scared of anything in his life, feels an unfamiliar urge to run, to get as far away from Atsumu as possible. His stomach swoops in that sickening, satisfying way, like right before the drop on a rollercoaster. 

“Man enough, huh? But you like me best, Omi-kun.You want me.”

He traces a single finger along Kiyoomi’s jaw and tilts his face upwards. Atsumu’s shorter than him, but somehow Kiyoomi’s found himself slouching against the lockers, weak in the knees and looking up at Atsumu instead. His cock twitches.

Oh no. No no no no no. He can’t believe the way his body is horny enough to betray him right now. 

Okay. He can fix this. He just needs to...bargain. Atsumu can’t hold sex over him like he’s got a treat and Kiyoomi’s the dog. Surely he has something to offer that Atsumu wants. Surely. He just has to hold out.

Slowly, he draws himself up to full height and looks Atsumu directly in the eyes. 

“You’re unbearable. You’re mediocre at sex but you’re the easiest option, since I already hate you and we work together, so I see you often. Either you can fuck me, or we can leave.”

“Hmm,” Atsumu muses. Then he drops his hand and turns around, picking up his duffel. “See you later, then.”

Kiyoomi steels himself. Any second now, Atsumu should drop the bluff and come running back. Any second.

“Sure. See you.” Kiyoomi zips his windbreaker back up and adjusts his pants.

Atsumu casts an oh-so-casual glance behind him, then walks out the door.

Just like that, Kiyoomi’s alone. And unbelievably horny.

Kiyoomi’s in his own bed when he summons up the memory of Atsumu’s promising smirk as he circles a hand around his cock. A wave of humiliation washes through him even as he does it, but he’s so antsy and jittery that it dissipates with the following wave of pleasure sparking in his gut.

And so, he lets his mind wander.

He imagines Atsumu above him, tracing the planes of his chest with glazed amber eyes, then with rough fingertips. “Omi-kun,” he might say, “you’re damn pretty for someone with such a filthy mouth.” He might put his mouth on one of Kiyoomi’s nipples, so Kiyoomi circles them with a fingertip and twists, gasping. 

He can’t help himself. 

“Miya,” he breathes out into the empty room, needy and desperate. He imagines the way Atsumu’s mouth would curl in satisfaction, how he would coat his fingers in lube and slowly fuck him, straining with the effort. Kiyoomi fucks himself on his own fingers and moans brokenly, finding his prostate and thinking about Atsumu opening him up. He’d be anything but gentle. He’d probably watch Kiyoomi beg until he’s utterly helpless. So he holds out until he can’t anymore and comes, while thinking of Atsumu’s face mid-orgasm. 

Lying there, torso covered in his own come, it finally dawns on him exactly how screwed he is. 

The next day after practice, Atsumu corners him in the locker room again.

“You ready to apologize, Omi-kun?” 

“In your dreams.”

Kiyoomi’s actually done pretty well so far. A whole week without Atsumu sucking him off or sucking Atsumu off himself and he’s feeling fine. Never mind that he’s constantly distracted by the way Atsumu’s shorts ride up his thighs, the way his jersey highlights the outline of his shoulders, or the way Atsumu keeps sticking his tongue out like a dog seeking relief from the heat. It shouldn’t be attractive. (It is. Kiyoomi wants that tongue shoved down his throat.)

“Sakusa-senshu!” Their coach shouts from the sidelines. “Are you planning on playing next week against the Red Falcons or are you gonna stand around with your head in the clouds?”

“Sorry, Coach,” he answers, embarrassment flooding his cheeks with colour. “I’ll do better.”

Hinata laughs. “Maybe Coach should put you back on serve receive drills with Atsumu-san. You were doing fine two weeks ago.”

Kiyoomi flinches. “Please don’t do that.”

“Maybe he should,” Atsumu chimes in, sauntering over. “Maybe then you might start actually improving in practice. You know, since this is your job and all.”

Kiyoomi lunges for his neck and Bokuto has to hold him back. 

He cracks a week later, after their game against the Falcons.

“Miya-senshu and Sakusa-senshu, you’ll be sharing a hotel room. Unfortunately this hotel’s all booked up.”

“What? Why not make anyone else share rooms? Like, literally anyone else?” Atsumu whines.

“Sorry, it was random. It’s just for one night, you’ll be fine.” Their manager dismisses them with a flick of her wrist and effectively shuts Atsumu out. 

“Let’s get on with it, Miya,” Kiyoomi grits out, and hauls his things into the hotel. 

“I thought with all your claims about being Japan’s best setter, you’d actually live up to them for once,” Kiyoomi spits. “Guess you’re all talk and no action, to no one’s surprise.”

“Oh, you wanna talk about no action? ‘Cause that’s all you, Omi-Omi, you practice and you just never get better, huh? Can’t blame the setter when the hitter isn’t up to par,” Atsumu returns, equally furious. 

“You’re the one always going on about how your hitters’ points are your points too, so what’s the truth? Maybe you’re just terrible at your job!”

“Guys,” Hinata says timidly. “It was one loss -”

“And it was _his_ fault!” Kiyoomi and Atsumu shout simultaneously.

“Don’t bother, Shoyo,” Bokuto says. “They’ve obviously got some shit to sort out between them. It’s probably their version of foreplay.”

Kiyoomi whips his head around. “It’s _not foreplay_ and I’m _not into Miya_ ,” he hisses, and something in his face must be a little too intense, because Bokuto actually steps back. Kiyoomi instantly feels bad.

“Good going, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, after a moment of terribly awkward silence.

“You shut up,” Kiyoomi snaps, and stalks off without a word.

The silence between them when they finally get to bed feels like gunpowder waiting for a lit match. Kiyoomi busies himself with his book and Atsumu scrolls through his phone on the other bed, but they’re very pointedly not talking to each other. 

Of course, Atsumu’s the first one to break the stalemate and stir up the pot again.

“You didn’t have to yell at Bokkun, you know. He was just teasing.”

Kiyoomi closes his book with an audible slam. “I wasn’t trying to yell at him, you’re the one who started that pointless argument. It’s your fault.”

“How’s it my fault if you yelled at someone else?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know - you’re just the worst!” Kiyoomi bursts out. “I can’t fucking live in peace when you’re around!” 

“What the fuck are you talking about? You’re the one constantly picking fights! I’ll say something perfectly normal, like “Good morning,” and you instantly lash out with “Fuck you,” like I’ve murdered your grandmother. At this point you’re the one making this difficult for yourself.”

Silence. 

Is he really that abrasive? Maybe at this point it’s become a reflex, to react to Miya Atsumu with acerbic remarks every time. But -

“You deserve it,” Kiyoomi says bitterly. “You’re an asshole. You don’t care about other people’s feelings. And,” he adds,“You talked about me behind my back even before I properly introduced myself to the team.”

He doesn’t look at Atsumu, but he feels Atsumu’s head swivel to look at him.

“Is that what all this has been about?”

Kiyoomi turns away, resolute.

“God, Kiyoomi - look. I wasn’t trying to hurt - I didn’t know that’s why - well. I’m sorry,” he says finally. 

Kiyoomi gives him a long, considering look, saying nothing. 

Atsumu throws his hands up and sighs, sitting up and slinging his legs over the side of the bed to face him properly. “If that helps at all. I - I do care about your feelings, or whatever. I just got defensive. I know that fighting’s kind of our thing, but I care more about winning games, so if apologizing will fix this, then - ”

“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi says finally. “I mean I don’t expect you to become some kind of angel overnight but - I’m sorry too. For the things I’ve said.”

“Okay.” He runs a hand through damp blonde hair and gives him a muted grin. “Apology accepted. So we’re good?”

“We’re fine.”

Atsumu lies down and looks at the ceiling. Another silence stretches between them, thick but comfortable. 

“So can I suck you off now or - ”

“Shut up and get over here.”

“Rules,” Kiyoomi hisses through his teeth, when Atsumu corners him after practice a day later and kisses him in the hallway. “Anyone could’ve spotted us, Atsumu. We need rules.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Trust you to want concrete guidelines to a fuckbuddy relationship.”

Kiyoomi calmly shoulders his duffel bag and starts walking away. 

“Ok wait, that was a joke. A joke. Omi-kun, I was joking, I swear, we can do rules, rules are good - ”

“First rule is to stop calling me by those ridiculous nicknames.”

“No can do, Omi-kun. You insist on calling me Miya, I get to call you whatever I want.”

Kiyoomi considers if switching to his first name is worth it. Calling him Atsumu when a ball flies in his direction on the court, referring to him as Atsumu when mapping out plays with the coach. Making his mouth shape the syllables. He shivers. Absolutely not. 

“Fine, call me whatever. I’ll call you Miya.”

“Fine. Also, I want you to start being nicer to me.”

Kiyoomi sighs. “I told you -”

“It’s a dealbreaker,” he adds quickly. “And if you’re nicer to me, I’ll be nicer to you. Win-win.”

Kiyoomi sighs. He could try. They’ve been getting along fairly well over the last few days, although that might just be because Atsumu’s back to sucking him off on a regular basis. “Fine. Also, we’re both free to end this any time and no fooling around at practice.”

“What?” Atsumu protests. 

“You can come over to my place after.”

“You’re inviting me over?”

Kiyoomi glances at him. “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

“Nope, no problem,” Atsumu says quickly. “That works for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> jane austen always gets it right.
> 
> disclaimer though: I took the quote that inspired the title out of context. It's actually referring to the way Bingley was uncivil towards other people because he was so engrossed by Jane, but when I saw the quote, it just felt so perfect to me. do excuse me for taking liberties. 
> 
> comments and kudos are always welcome (they give me life). come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/msbyshoyou).


End file.
